First Person, Third Person, and Me From the Past

Lately, I've been working on my third novel.

Not editing the second, mind you—the one that’s actually due next—but rewriting the one that comes after it. Because apparently that’s how my brain wants to do things now: backwards.

This particular story began life as a first-person experiment. I wanted that sense of intimacy and immediacy, the feeling that you’re right there inside the character’s skin. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling right. Not broken, exactly. Just… off. Like trying to watch a film through someone else's glasses.

So now I’m converting the whole thing to third person. And weirdly? It’s been brilliant.

Third person gives me more room to move, more angles to explore. Descriptions feel richer, moments feel broader, and somehow the story has started breathing differently; deeper, clearer, sharper. It’s like I opened a window and let the whole thing exhale.

But here’s the strange part.

I haven’t touched this draft in a long time. Long enough that I’d forgotten half of what happens. So with every new chapter I revisit, it’s like reading a book written by someone else. The structure, the characters, even the twists catch me off guard. Then I remember—I wrote this.

Past-me. That eccentric, scribbling version of myself who apparently had no concept of restraint and a worrying fondness for cliffhangers.

It's disorienting and delightful in equal measure. Like being haunted by your own ghost, but in a way that sometimes hands you brilliant dialogue and sometimes makes you mutter, “What the hell were you thinking?”

So that’s where I’m at: rewriting a book I wrote, rediscovering a plot I plotted, and muttering at a version of myself who no longer exists.

And weirdly, I’m loving every minute of it.